


Jeeves and the Best Laid Schemes

by Sex_in_spats



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:24:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sex_in_spats/pseuds/Sex_in_spats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt: While on holiday, Jeeves finally realizes he can't take it any more and decides to make his move on Bertie when he gets home. Every time Jeeves tries to say something, there's an interruption. - birds, bezels, aunts, traveling salesmen, thunderstorms, the more bizarre the better. Finally, seeing that trying to talk to Bertie about it is going to be hopeless, he engineers a few days of absolute isolation and pounces the young master, who responds with delight and a what-took-you-so-long attitude. Massive happy smut ensues. Satisfaction is had by all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare.”_

 _-Spinoza_

 _“Suspense is worse than disappointment.”_

 _-Robert Burns  
_

 

Self-knowledge is the highest human virtue, and I had always imagined I possessed it in uncommon abundance. Self-mastery, sister to self-knowledge, was another trait which I took care to cultivate both philosophically and in the practicalities of my personal and professional existence. Self-knowledge and self-mastery allowed me to preserve my dignity, liberty and sanity throughout my double life as both the consummate valet and as a gentleman who prefers the company of other gentleman. A servant must learn to wear masks, and for a confirmed invert who has known of his proclivities since he was quite young, these masks must be maintained even among those of one's station.

I have always believed that one who has his hand firmly on the wheel of his own soul can face the vicissitudes of fate with a steady eye and a calm heart. In pride born of long and difficult experience, I imagined that I was unshakable and untouchable. However, in less than one calamitous week, a singular series of events revealed that I did not understand what a powerful sway my feelings could exert over my reason. I was blissfully unaware that in the face of circumstantial frustrations I might find myself heedlessly abandoning my own best interests in a desperate bid for improbable happiness.

My undoing began with my employment to Mr. Wooster. From the first time I saw him, I was charmed by and attracted to him. For a personal attendant to find the svelte body and fine features of his master pleasing to the eye is a seductive boon, and I indulged this private discomfort and minor pleasure without hesitation. After this had gone on for some time, however, I found that my sentiments concerning Mr. Wooster were not altogether limited to his physical qualities. The thought of him being taken out of my life became increasingly distasteful. Seeing him smile or hearing him praise my cooking or my intellectual prowess became my great secret joy. I experienced pangs of what an honest man would have immediately recognized as jealousy when I found his affections had yet again been engaged in some dubious quarter. I realized, a bit belatedly, that I had fallen in love with my employer.

For many years, I believed that this did not pose any serious obstacle to my contentment. It might be assumed that I must have been unhappy serving a man for whom I had romantic feelings, but I was not. A valet must never be a slave to his emotions, and with little difficulty, I was able to ensure that the _tendre_ I felt for my employer was never visible on my face and scarcely disturbed my inner calm. What more could I ask beyond creature comforts, fiscal security and the constant companionship of the man I adored?

In my weaker moments, I had the memory and anticipation of the weeks I spent during my vacation on the French Riviera to sustain me. Every year I would travel to the Cote d'Azur, ostensibly for the fishing. The real pleasures of my leave, however, were confined to the long and balmy Mediterranean nights. After fishing during the day I would spend the evening drinking, smoking and sharing my bed and body with like minded men. Little did Mr. Wooster suspect that the bathing beauties contest I judged did not feature a single female specimen.

Half way through the fifth vacation I took as Mr. Wooster's personal gentleman, I realized that something had changed. I was seated on a balcony overlooking the shimmering, fragrant sea at a discreet little restaurant I favoured when I was suddenly forced to acknowledge the fruit of what had been growing in my heart for many years. The night was lovely. The full moon illuminated the smooth sands of the shore, and a cigar smoked in its holder at my elbow as I sipped a fine vintage of Bordeaux. We are allotted a finite number of perfect moments in this life, and by all counts this ought to have been one of them. But I could not drink deep its bliss as I had once done because I missed Mr. Wooster.

In the past, I had thoroughly enjoyed the fleshly diversions the Côte d'Azur provided; though my affections were thoroughly engaged with my employer, I would have been either a fool or a madman to allow such a one-sided and hopeless attachment to lessen the sweetness of my dalliances. This time, however, I found that I had little interest in my usual evanescent intrigues and seductions. The magical place which once offered me the freedom I craved like air had lost its charms. I didn't want to spend my night with a stranger; I wanted him.

Things, I concluded as I drank the dregs of my wine, had gotten out of hand. I asked myself whether my new-found inability to regulate my feelings for my employer would lessen with time. Given that my affection for him had only grown stronger throughout the many years of our acquaintance, I could only conclude that this was unlikely. I considered my next course of action. I could exert more effort to keep my unruly feelings in check in the interest of maintaining the status quo, but something deep and unruly inside my heart rebelled at the thought. I considered resigning, but I could not bear the idea of never seeing him again.

Or, I thought, allowing my mind to linger on a fantasy which I had forbidden myself for half a decade, I could declare myself to him.

I would have never contemplated such a drastic and dangerous step had I no indication that Mr. Wooster might welcome the change in our arrangement. As it stood, I believed he was almost certainly an invert, though whether he himself was aware of this remained questionable. By this time he had sworn off women entirely, but even during the years when he had fancied himself in love with sundry members of the fairer sex, his love seemed to be seated in his imagination rather than in any genuine romantic attachment to the individual in question. Once all ties had been severed, he never regretted their loss for long, if he did at all.

But what, I wondered, rolling the flute of my glass between my thumb and forefinger, did he think of me? Of course I was aware that Mr. Wooster was fond of me; my presence was the lodestar of his domestic life. But did he see me as anything more? I did not—could not—know beyond a shadow of a doubt, but I suspected that he did. There were times when I would notice him watching me with a look of mingled fondness and sadness which would vanish so quickly I almost suspected I imagined it. Many times he had tried to elicit information about my family and my affairs, inquiries I half indulged and half dodged, and this concern gave me hope. Finally and most tellingly , when I was gone from him he pined. There is no other word for the despondency I read in his demeanour and from a thousand other signs which only someone who knew Mr. Wooster as I did could interpret.

That night I resolved to take the first daringly foolish step of my life. I was aware that I faced the possibility of utter ruin. But as I stood, paid my bill and made my way down the gas lit roads back to my solitary cottage by the sea, I vowed silently to the man I had come to love as dearly as life itself, _I'll follow you and make a heaven out of hell, and I'll die by your hand which I love so well._

****

“We apologize for the continued delay. We are fixing the problem as quickly as we can, but we probably won't get into London until around midnight.”

The conductor who made the announcement looked exhausted, but I was too entrenched in my own eagerness to return to Mr. Wooster to feel anything but an uncharacteristic impatience. I had been sorely tried. The trains in France had run late, but that was no surprise; the French have a much more lax attitude toward punctuality than the English. When I boarded the ferry which was to take me across the Channel the weather was bright, the sky, clear, and I felt optimistic that I would be back in Berkeley Square by mid-afternoon. As soon as we were a hundred yards from shore, however, thunder heads rolled in and the winds picked up from the south. Soon torrents of rain lashed the deck and enormous waves battered the ship. I arrived many hours too late for my connecting train and barely caught the 7.14.

I was beginning to wonder irritably whether I would ever reach London at all when the conductor made his announcement to our crowded car. We were about halfway down the Brighton line and I would not be able to send a telegram to Mr. Wooster alerting him to my late arrival. I took a deep breath and calmed my rattled nerves. I was, after all, a deeply disciplined, resourceful, and, most of all, patient man. While inconvenient, this delay was inconsequential to my larger plan.

Little did I suspect that the mishaps plaguing my journey were mere shadows of the trials to come, trials which would weigh my self-mastery in the balance and find me wanting.

* * *

The conductor's estimated time for our arrival was optimistic, for we did not reach Waterloo station until well after 1:00 AM. By the time I found myself standing on the kerb opposite our building looking up at the windows, it was slightly after 2:00 AM. Our lights were still on, which I took as a propitious sign. Mr. Wooster often goes to bed in the small hours of the morning and sleeps quite late, so there was a good chance I could make my confession that very evening.

In spite of my anxiety and exhaustion, I walked to the lift with a sure and resolute step. I let myself in the flat and looked for my employer, clearing my throat to announce my presence. Every light was on and the room was an absolute disaster. I hung my hat and coat and began slowly tiding as I worked my way to the master bedroom. He was not there. I turned back to the living room and realized that the flat was such a mess I had initially failed to notice Mr. Wooster's lanky legs protruding from beneath the chesterfield.

Alarmed, I reached his side in moments and peered into the dark recess under the couch. “Sir?” My calm inquiry, which betrayed none of the frantic concern I felt, elicited a groan. “Sir, are you well?”

The legs moved and my master slid out from under the furniture, his curls tousled and his clothing in a state too wrinkled to contemplate. He was not, as I had at first feared, injured, but only intoxicated—exceedingly intoxicated. My heart sank. All hope of bringing up the matter which had lain so heavily on my mind for two weeks vanished. I rose to my feet and asked a bit coolly, “Did sir wish to spend the night on the floor, or shall I prepare the master bedroom?”

When his eyes finally focused on me, they grew wider. “Jeeves?” he slurred, pulling himself onto the cushions with considerable effort. “You're here.”

“Indeed, sir. Did you enjoy an invigorating evening?”

Mr. Wooster was curiously affected by my presence; he seemed surprised to see me. “Jeeves... I ... where were you?” He blurted out. “Was... worried, 'bout you. Thought you'd giv'n me the... ol' heave-ho. It was the chequered tie, thought you'd decided to say dash th'feudal spirit and the young master ... I never even wore the bally tie, Jeeves!”

I was aware, of course, of the existence of the aforementioned article, which had been naively concealed in the bottom of his sock drawer. I had intended to destroy it as soon as Mr. Wooster took a trip to the country, but he had not ventured to wear the horrific thing in my presence. I gathered from his disjointed ramblings that when I had not arrived that morning and sent no word, he had leaped to the hasty and erroneous conclusion that I had decided to leave his service without notice on account of the contraband item. What this suggested about my master's estimation of my integrity and devotion to him did nothing to alleviate my growing resentment of his excessive drunkenness. Behind my irritation part of me wondered why he was drunk. While it was not uncommon for him to make merry at the Drones Club and come back somewhat the worse for wear, I had rarely seen him so far gone.

I continued to address him in glacial tones. “Sir, my train was delayed and there was some unexpected difficulty crossing the channel. I would have sent you a telegram but was never afforded the opportunity. I trust this has caused you no undue distress.”

“Undue distress?” He mouthed the words slowly, as if they were in a language unfamiliar to him. He shook his head and raised his hand over his eyes. “Jeeves, you sound destickt-distingu-”

“Distinctly, sir?” I supplied reflexively.

He raised his eyes and gave me a look of dizzy and somewhat uncharacteristic belligerence. “Very very soupy, n' froglike.” His eyes were red-rimmed, although whether this was a symptom of his inebriation or whether he had been crying I could not say.

I stiffened at his words. “I shall endeavour to correct it, sir. If you will excuse me I must prepare the master bedroom.”

I drifted out of the living room and began stripping the sheets off his bed. I was so disturbed by how rapidly he had assumed that I had abandoned him that for a few evil moments I entertained the thought of dumping him in the rumpled sheets and retiring for the evening. But no, regardless of my petty resentment it would not do to let standards drop. I snapped the clean sheets onto the bed and finished tucking them in when I turned to find Mr. Wooster leaning heavily on the doorway of the bedroom, watching me in silence. He seemed more collected and a bit contrite.

“'M sorry Jeeves.”

“Sir?”

“M'sorry m' so tight, old thing. I just wonder sometimes, what a paragon like you is doing with a chump like Wooster, B. Gets worse when you're gone y'know. When I didn't hear from you I biffed off to the Drones to pass the time and the later it became the more sense had been washed out of the Wooster onion.” He gave me a wan smile which faded as he registered something in my expression. “How was your trip? You look distinctly un-chuffed, if that's a word. Usually you come back from the shores stuffed to the brim with fish and the Viking light gleaming in your baby blues. Is something wrong?” He lurched forward to peer at my face more closely.

He has always been adept at reading even my slightest expression and it is a tribute to his acute sensitivity that even in this state he could sense my displeasure. “My vacation was quite satisfactory, thank you sir,” I replied more gently. “If you are ready to retire the bed has been prepared. You will find a glass of water on the bedside table should you need it.” He obligingly, if a bit clumsily, began stepping out of his clothing. When I finished gathering them up in his wake he had slipped into his pajamas and was crawling into bed, his eyes never leaving my face. I disposed of the clothing and stood at attention. “Will there be anything else this evening, sir?”

He frowned in concentration even as his eyelids began to droop. “Met Gussie at the Drones, and he needs your help fishing him out, though if you ask me he's behaving like a first-rate chump. He's in the metrop. for a week and...” His voice trailed off. “Meant to tell you something, Jeeves, but I can't seem to get my bally brain to deliver up the goods.”

“Do not concern yourself, sir. We will speak tomorrow,” I assured him as I left the room. As soon as I had switched the light off a small voice murmured, almost inaudibly, “Missed you terribly, Jeeves.”

I closed the door behind me softly and lingered outside his bedroom for a moment, closing my eyes. Perhaps it was sheer psychological and physical exhaustion, but I found myself deeply affected by this unprecedented, if drunken, confession. I tried to temper the warmth which blossomed in my chest by reminding myself that to take seriously the things a man says whilst in his cups is dangerous, particularly for someone in my position. This did not prevent me from replying, softly, “I've missed you too, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up only slightly later than is my custom, and in spite of the late night, found myself in excellent spirits. After a light breakfast I busied myself by tidying up the flat which was, as I noted earlier, an appalling mess. Socks were strewn over lampshades, cigarettes secreted in diverse and unexpected locations such as between the settee cushions and inside drawers, and sticky cocktail glasses covered nearly every table and every inch of the mantelpiece. This did nothing to sour my good humour, as these small tasks inaugurated my return to the care of Mr. Wooster. When I found half-charred remains of the offensive chequered tie in the fireplace, I very nearly smiled.

I made quick work of the living room and the kitchen before preparing Mr. Wooster's restorative. I concocted an unusually potent mixture and felt perversely gratified at the thought of the headache the excesses of last night would doubtlessly visit on my unfortunate master. I knew it was likely he would not be up for a full breakfast so I only prepared a cup of tea before gliding into Mr. Wooster's room.

I could discern from his breathing that he was awake but in a great deal of discomfort. His slender hands covered his eyes and what I could see of his face looked pained.

“Good morning, sir. I trust you are well rested enough to drink this?”

Bertie groaned. “Jeeves, I have no need of mornings. Mornings can go hang. Are my affairs in order? The last of the Woosters needs nothing more than an undertaker and a quiet hole in which to bung the mortal remains.”

“I trust that is not the case, sir.”

His free hand groped blindly for the glass which I supplied and he drank in silence. As he did so I opened the curtains and cracked the window, letting the unseasonably warm autumn breeze whisk away the stale air. When I turned back to him he had brightened considerably and was sitting up, regarding me with a warm smile. As I looked, his smile wilted and he looked uneasy. “Erm, Jeeves, I am a bit unsure what the young master might have said or done last night. I had a few—more than a few—snootfuls at the Drones and was pretty well under the surface when you came back.”

“To be precise, sir, you were under the chesterfield.”

Mr. Wooster turned a becoming shade of pink and continued, not quite meeting my eyes. “Well, Jeeves, this is the thing. Did I say or do anything unbecoming of a preux chevalier ? I have not been so tight since I was sailing under the old Oxford blues and, well, I hate that you probably had to play nursemaid to the young master as soon as you stepped off the boat, old fruit.”

I handed him his tea. “Not at all, sir,” I assured him.

He looked relieved and he continued to sip his tea as the smile returned to his expressive features. “How was your vacation, Jeeves? You look quite tanned and fit, brimming with good health. Did you strike terror into the heart of the mighty mackerel with the power of your harpoon?”

“Thank you sir,” I inclined my head, “but I feel bound to inform you that one does not hunt for mackerel with a harpoon and as I generally vacation on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, I do not fish for mackerel. This particular species of fish is common in the Atlantic Ocean near the shore of North America, and on account of their bland flavour and peculiar consistency-”

“Jeeves,” Mr. Wooster interrupted, bringing his cup down with a force and alacrity which made me fear for the saucer, “that is enough about mackerel. Expunge mackerel from your mind.”

“I have already done so, sir. To answer your initial inquiry, my vacation was quite pleasant, thank you sir.”

There was a pause as he finished his tea. I rallied my courage, and coughed softly.

“Jeeves?”

“If I may, sir, there is a . . . delicate matter which I should like to discuss with you.”

Mr. Wooster's eyes widened with apprehension. He placed his teacup and saucer on the table and gave me his full attention. “Of course Jeeves, though if it's regarding that natty chequered tie, I got rid of the thing.”

“No, sir, what I have to say has nothing whatsoever to do with that eccentric item, though I have no doubt that it has gone to a better place.” I took a deep breath. “Sir, ever since I-aggh!”

I gave a rather undignified exclamation of surprise. While I was speaking, I had suddenly become aware of something cold and clammy climbing up my leg inside my trousers. I knelt and raised my trouser leg to discover a member of the _taricha granulosa_ family—the common rough-skinned newt—had crawled up my calf. Shuddering, I scooped the amphibious creature into my hand and held him up in disbelief. “Sir? Why is there a newt in your bedroom?”

Mr. Wooster regarded me wide eyed, the blankets clutched in his hand. “Jeeves, if you'll turn around there's a good sight more than just one newt,” he squeaked.

I whirled around to face at least twelve of the loathsome creatures crawling over the carpet in a line leading from the master bathroom. Incredulously, I followed their ranks back to the source: Mr. Wooster's tub. The rest of the flat had been in such poor repair that I had not found the time to investigate the state of the master bathroom, and I realized belatedly that this oversight had been a grave error. Three empty, sizeable newt tanks were stacked by the sink and the tub was crawling with the creatures. The tub, which was filled with islands of dirt supplied by the now-vacant tanks, had at one time been filled with a few inches of water, but the plug had been inserted carelessly so the water had ebbed slowly throughout the night. Now that the water had disappeared the intrepid explorers had gone in search of more suitable environs. I turned to Mr. Wooster, who sat in open-mouthed shock, staring at the amphibious invasion.

“Am I to understand that we are entertaining Mr. Fink-Nottle, sir?”

“Gussie?” He continued to gape until realization dawned. He turned to me brightly as if suddenly forgetting our home was infested with newts. “Gussie. Yes, Jeeves, he is staying in the guest bedroom. I was so bally potted last night I completely forgot about it until now. He requires you to rally round, Jeeves. The milk of wedded paradise has turned sour on poor old Gussie's lips. Apparently Emerald has given him the bum's rush.”

“Indeed, sir.” On my own account, I am perfectly indifferent to Mr. Wooster's innumerable and at times nearly indistinguishable friends, but as he is so devotedly loyal to them I have a predisposition to like them rather than not, save in those instances where their demands and desires endanger or compromise Mr. Wooster. Unfortunately this happens to be the case quite often. This time, however, I found myself resenting Mr. Fink-Nottle entirely on my own behalf. I could never risk my own safety, to say nothing of Mr. Wooster's well being, by making such an incriminating confession as I'd planned with a guest present, even a guest as customarily oblivious and inept as Mr. Fink-Nottle. Furthermore, I wanted Mr. Wooster to be able to think about what I had to say without the distraction of another person in our home. I immediately resolved to rid us of this unwelcome interruption and his small army of pestilential pets in as expedient a fashion as decorum would permit.

* * *

As soon as Mr. Fink-Nottle emerged from the guest bedroom, I realized that he had also been indulging, something he only did when in dire distress. He was clad in what I could only assume was the same suit he had worn the night before.

“Oh, hello Jeeves,” he murmured before collapsing into an armchair.

“Good morning, Mr. Fink-Nottle,” I replied. “Mr. Wooster was wondering if you could take care of the little newt problem which appears to have developed in the master bathroom.”

His eyes widened and the ill effects of last night's excesses were instantaneously exorcised as he leaped to his feet and dashed into the master bedroom. I entered the guest bedroom and found it in a state to rival Mr. Fink-Nottle's dishabille; suitcases had been thrown into the corner and the sheets tangled into knots. I tidied as quickly as possible, and when I returned Mr. Fink-Nottle stood in the living room, the newts restored to their proper place in the tanks by his side. Mr. Wooster entered the room a moment later, and I was pleased to note that to my trained eye he appeared slightly annoyed with his guest.

“Now Gussie,” he said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his robe, “do dress yourself properly or old Jeeves will refuse to answer your supplication for succour. You know how hidebound and reactionary he is in re. appearing the next morning in the togs in which one spent a rather fruity evening.”

Mr. Fink-Nottle cast me a guilty glance a timid schoolboy caught out after hours might give his headmaster. “All right, Bertie.”

As soon as the door of the guest room closed, Mr. Wooster turned to me. “That got rid of the blighter for a little bit. Now, Jeeves, you said you had something to say to me.”

I sighed inwardly. “It is unimportant, sir.”

He eyed me narrowly. “I know what unimportant looks like on the Jeevesian map and whatever it is you had to say to the young master this morning was certainly not.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Indeed, sir?”

“Jeeves, you sound displeased. I am sorry I forgot to tell you about Gussie, but when a chap has been imbibing b&s of an evening allowances must be made. The Wooster bean was not in its top form. What was it you had to say to me?”

Apprehension had crept back into his voice and I hastened to reassure him. It wouldn't do to have him believe I was seriously angry with him before I lay my romantic proposition and my destiny at his feet. “I was only going to ask, sir, whether in my absence you had decided to seek gainful employment at the zoo.”

“Eh?”

“While cleaning underneath your bed, I discovered a scarf patterned with what appeared to be leopard spots. I could only conclude that you had taken an interest in exotic animal life.”

All apprehension vanished from his face; this was familiar territory for us. “Jeeves, you go too far. The stylish article on which you lavish such disdain was a gift from Oofy Prosser. He was on safari last month and the chaps at the Drones are absolutely mad for this dashing piece of neck wear. I won't hear anything against it Jeeves. In fact, I shall sport it about the metrop. this very afternoon to the envy and admiration of all.”

“Very good sir. Shall I lay out a whip and patterned topper to complete the ensemble?”

“I think the blue pinstripe should fit the bill. Let me hear no more about zoos or circuses. The scarf will remain a stylish adornment to the graceful Wooster neck with or without your approval, Jeeves.”

“Yes sir.”

Mr. Wooster made good on his threat, and I immediately regretted that what I had intended as a mere diversion had give rise to his wrong-headed determination to wear the scarf to spite both me and all standards of good taste. He departed with a lofty proclamation that he would be back around supper time. As soon as he had gone Mr. Fink-Nottle reappeared, dressed in a way almost appropriate for a civilized gentleman.

“I suppose Bertie has told you all, Jeeves,” Mr. Fink-Nottle greeted me despondently.

“On the contrary, Mr. Fink-Nottle, Mr. Wooster has only given me to understand that you have experienced some little domestic strife.”

“Little! Jeeves, Emerald has thrown me out of my own home! Bertie has a lot of dashed nerve to call that 'little'!”

“Perhaps it would be best if you told me what happened from the beginning.”

I won't tire my readers by reproducing the rambling and disjointed tale of marital woe Mr. Fink-Nottle laid before me. Suffice it to say that his relations with the former Ms. Stoker had undergone some strain on account of Mr. Fink-Nottle's repeatedly, though inadvertently, being caught in compromising positions with various female members of the staff. Had any other man told me this I would have thought him a liar, but Mr. Fink-Nottle is one of the most hapless, incompetent and harmless people of Mr. Wooster's acquaintance. The story culminated with his being caught in the maid's bedroom searching for a large female newt who happened to share the appellation “Annie” with the servant in question. Upon discovering Mr. Fink-Nottle rifling through the chambermaid's undergarments calling “Annie, Annie,” in a _sotto voice_ , Mrs. Fink-Nottle had, not unreasonably, told him to pack his things.

I confess the scheme I devised was not intended to help Mr. Fink-Nottle so much as to get him to leave the flat as soon as humanly possible and it therefore lacked a certain subtlety. I told him that he ought to return and surprise Mrs. Fink-Nottle with a cruise away from the domestics and, perhaps more importantly, away from his newts. This plan, I told him, also had the virtue of providing a plausible explanation of why he was so intent on conversing privately with the staff.

If this plot lacked my usual finesse, Mr. Fink-Nottle did not notice. He brightened when I finished laying out the details. “Jeeves, that's a corker! Here, take a fiver. Now go and pack my bags. I have a cruise to book and a wife to win!”

I fetched his hat and coat. “I hear the Caribbean is quite clement this time of year,” I suggested, savouring the thought of sending him to a location as remote as possible from Mr. Wooster and myself.

“Thank you Jeeves!”

I shut the door behind him and was left to my own devices for the remainder of the afternoon, time I spent scrubbing dirt and newt skin out of the tub in the master bathroom and fantasizing about what I had planned to say to Mr. Wooster as soon as we were left in peace. But, as the poet Burns cautions, “The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain for promis'd joy.”


	3. Chapter 3

“What sort of day is it, Jeeves?” Mr. Wooster greeted me fondly from behind his steaming cup of morning Darjeeling.

“Unseasonably warm for this time of year, sir, with light cirrus clouds in the western horizon, though there is a small chance of rain.”

Mr. Wooster made a pleased sound into his plate of eggs and bacon. Mr. Fink-Nottle had remained another day and a half to book his tickets and arrange transportation back to his estate in Lincolnshire, so this was the first morning since my return we could enjoy together sans newts. I echoed his happy grin with a half-smile of my own, hope like a feathered thing perched upon my soul.

“God is in his h. and all is right with the w. Neither a Fink nor a Nottle in sight, Jeeves.”

I nodded. “Shall I prepare your bath, sir?”

“Rather, Jeeves. Ehm, not to doubt your competence, old thing, since you know that in matters of keeping the Wooster nest sparkling clean you stand alone, but I need to ask if you have managed to rid the bathtub entirely of newt whatsit.”

My employer had taken baths in the guest bathroom since the incident with the newts, and while I could not blame him I disliked the implication that I would ever allow him to bathe in a contaminated tub. “Of course, sir,” I said stiffly.

He smiled so beautifully in reply that if I were not foolishly enamoured of him already I would have fallen in love that very moment. I helped him with his bath and took care of the breakfast dishes before selecting our suit for that day. I chose a light weave grey fabric and a navy blue tie which never failed to bring out his strikingly blue eyes, along with a pair of understated silver cuff links and white spats. I left these out and when I'd finished winding his watch and turning over the bedspread I returned to the kitchen to polish the silver and listen for the sound of him emerging for the day.

Not five minutes later I heard him bustling about the living room, no doubt in search of the lighter he had left underneath a side table. I put the silver away, walked into the living room and lit his cigarette wordlessly. He smiled in gratitude and puffed in silence for a few moments, staring out the window into the sunny street below.

This, I decided, was the ideal moment. I coughed delicately.

“Yes, Jeeves?”

I took a step closer to him, gazing intently into his eyes. “I have a confession to make, sir. While I do not believe your newly discovered affinity for zoologically patterned neck wear to be at all suitable for a gentleman, that was a mere prevarication. I had something else I wished to discuss with you.”

“Oh?” He dragged at his cigarette nervously. “To be honest, Jeeves, I thought that might be a—erm—what's the word for something which someone does to distract from something which that someone doesn't want someone else to know? Sounds like division.”

“Do you perhaps mean 'diversion', sir?”

“Ah, yes, that's the chappie. Diversion. I thought it might be a diversion. Well, if you have something to say to me, I am all ears. Well, not all ears, as there needs to be some grey matter to mull over the intelligent wheeze your massive brain might have thought up. Or perhaps you have a question. Ask away. Do you require a raise? As you know, I would give you unto half my kingdom. Anything except longer vacations, of course. You know I cannot do without you.”

I let him finish babbling before taking a deep breath and forging ahead. “Sir, the philosopher Spinoza once said that all happiness or unhappiness solely depends upon the quality of-”

 _Ding-dong._

I was cut off by the familiar and newly loathsome sound of the ringing doorbell. Mr. Wooster and I, now standing much more closely than was strictly proper, stared at one another dumbly.

 _Ding-dong._

The doorbell rang again. Remembering myself I stepped back hastily just as Mr. Wooster lunged forward towards the front door. Our legs tangled and Mr. Wooster stumbled face first into the carpet.

“Are you uninjured, sir?” I helped him up and Mr. Wooster scrambled to his feet, his cheeks red with embarrassment. He did not let go of my hand, however, and continued to stare into my eyes.

 _Ding-dong._

The doorbell rang a third time and I gave a delicate cough.

He dropped my hand as if it burned him and turned a deeper shade of red. “Better get that, Jeeves.”

I carefully picked the cigarette off the carpet before it could cause a fire and handed it to him before opening the door. It was a telegram for Mr. Wooster.

I scanned the curtly worded document. “It appears to be from Lady Worplesdon. She is desirous that we give her lunch in approximately half an hour.”

“Aunt Agatha!” Bertie exclaimed in dismay. “What on earth does she who devours young nephews and uses their bones to pick her fangs want with me, Jeeves? She certainly isn't visiting her third least favourite nephew for the pleasure of his company.”

“The contingency seems a remote one, sir,” I conceded. The moment for speaking had passed, but I could be patient. Another would come. I mentally composed a shopping list, as our larder had been nearly depleted in my absence. “If you will excuse me, there are one or two items I will need if we are to entertain in half an hour, sir.”

He nodded gloomily. “Make it quick, Jeeves. Had the Wooster ancestors in the crusades reached the Holy Land and found the place crawling with fire-breathing aunts, they would have spurred their mighty steeds right back to old Blighty, what?”

“As you say, sir.”

* * *

“You won't often hear me say this Jeeves,” Mr. Wooster said as he reclined on the chesterfield after lunch, “but this visit from the scourge of the Woosters was less scourge-like than usual. No auntly scheme to marry me off to some blasted beazel or marshal me into some gainful employment is on the horizon. Imagine a visit from Aunt Agatha where all she wants from her nephew is to look after MacIntosh for a few days.” He gave the dog seated on his lap an affectionate pat. “In fact,” he added, finishing the brandy in his hand with a flourish, “my spirits fly on wings as the whatsits, and I will celebrate sharing our home with the little fellow by tickling the ivories with a few soulful melodies.”

“I trust things have not come to that, sir.”

He paused on his way to the piano to glare at me. “I picked up a few new songs in your absence, Jeeves, and I think you'll like one of them. It features a spot of philosophy and a goodish dash of brainy thingness which made me think of you.”

He settled himself in the piano and launched into one of the worst examples of music hall dreck I had ever heard. Mr. Wooster's melodious and expressive tenor was augmented by the yelping of MacIntosh, who watched my master with gleeful canine intent.

I retreated to the kitchen to resume polishing the silver and await the time when I could re-emerge without risking irreparable injury to my ears or musical sensibility.

* * *

At first I did not consider the presence of MacIntosh any obstacle to my impending discussion with Mr. Wooster. This proved I had not accurately gauged depths of perversity lurking in the breast of this little terrier.

I decided to broach the subject once more when I brought Mr. Wooster a late afternoon cocktail. He had resumed his position on the chesterfield and was deeply engrossed in his mystery novel.

“I say, Jeeves,” he said, taking a sip of the Manhattan and smacking his lips in approval, “do you want to borrow this when I'm done? It's an absolute corker.”

“Perhaps, sir,” I replied doubtfully. “In the mean time I was wondering if we could return to the little matter to which I alluded earlier before Lady Worplesdon's telegram.”

He took another sip and put the book down. “Of course.” He hesitated. “It doesn't have to do with Spinoza, does it? I know you like nothing better than settling down with his latest, but I've taken a look at the stuff and it's a bit beyond me, I'm afraid. Not that I wouldn't be willing to give it a go, of course, if you think it'd improve the negligible contents of the Wooster noggin.”

“No, it is not to do with Spinoza,” I corrected him, “though something he wrote would perhaps prove illuminating with respect to what I have to say. Sir, for a long time I have been experiencing-”

It was at this moment that MacIntosh, who had been curled up on the other end of the chesterfield, delivered a series of ear-shattering barks. I stopped and Mr. Wooster pulled the dog into his lap, scratching behind his ears. MacIntosh settled down. “Sorry about that. Do go on, old thing.”

“Since I first entered your employ-”

The dog resumed its barking as though it were possessed. I stopped. The dog stopped.

I tried again. “I-” MacIntosh growled and continued its insufferable vociferation. Nothing my employer could do or say would dissuade MacIntosh from expressing what I was beginning to suspect was its hearty disapproval. Without a word I lifted the thing by the scruff of its neck, deposited it in the kitchen and shut the door. There was a brief and welcome silence before it continued to bark.

“I say, you don't think that MacIntosh is sick, do you?” Mr. Wooster looked worried. “This isn't like the little fellow.”

“I couldn't say sir,” I replied. For such a small animal the sheer quantity of noise it produced beggared belief.

“You were saying something, Jeeves?”

The barking continued unabated. “Sir, perhaps I should take the animal for a walk to calm its spirits.”

Mr. Wooster shook his head. “I don't think it likes you at the mo', Jeeves. I'll take MacIntosh out for a bit of a perambu-whatsit. But before I do could you enlighten me in re. what's weighing on your mind?”

As he looked up at me with those endlessly blue eyes I opened my mouth to say those words which would determine my fate when the phone rang, barely audible over MacIntosh.

Mr. Wooster's eyes widened. “Good Lord, Jeeves, what if that's Aunt Agatha!”

“Sir?”

He leaped to his feet and in a heartbeat had retrieved Macintosh from the kitchen, tethered him to the leash and was nearly out the door. “She'll want to talk to the little blighter and if it's barking like this she'll think we're trying to murder the apple of her eye, whereupon she will murder her undeserving nephew. Toodle-pip!”

If this were the conclusion Lady Worplesdon would draw, in that instant her supposition would not have been altogether inaccurate. I mastered myself and answered the call which, incidentally, was not Mr. Wooster's Aunt Agatha.

* * *

I scarcely saw Mr. Wooster that evening. He returned in a half an hour from his promenade, and as soon as he set foot in the door and MacIntosh caught a glimpse of me he returned to barking like a fiend. Mr. Wooster told me that he would be leaving for the Drones that evening to escape the ungodly row and that I shouldn't wait up for him.

I considered waiting up for him in spite of his warning, but since it was likely he would indulge at his club, I thought better of it. Instead I spent the evening planning how I would get him out of the flat if MacIntosh continued to prove recalcitrant. I went to bed confident that tomorrow would be the day that I determined once and for all exactly what I meant to Mr. Wooster, come hell or high water, or even, I thought as I drifted into slumber, irascible terriers.


	4. Chapter 4

“Jeeves, what a wheeze this picnic idea of yours turned out to be,” Mr. Wooster said, taking a sip of wine before helping himself to another cold cutlet. We were in a secluded corner of Hyde Park, having left MacIntosh to stew in his own bile back in the flat whilst we enjoyed a late luncheon in the sun.

I quirked my lips in acknowledgement, trying not to be distracted by Mr. Wooster's shapely and recumbent form. This was the perfect setting for my declaration; while there were others in the park, no one came near the remote spot I had chosen for our leisurely repast. I also believed the unusual setting would work in my favour. Out here, while I still served him his lunch, I did not need to wait on him as I did back in the flat, and it was not inappropriate for us to eat together. It was almost, I thought a little wistfully, as if we were two old friends enjoying what would likely be one of the last warm days of the season.

“You know, Jeeves,” Mr. Wooster said meditatively, “this might sound dashed silly, but moments like these turn the young man's mind to the matter of love.”

Only years of hiding my feelings allowed me to hear these words with any equanimity. No expression betrayed my dismay. “Sir?”

Mr. Wooster swirled the wine in his glass. “Yes, love, Jeeves, and how if I had married any of the pills I have been engaged to—willingly or unwillingly—I would never have the freedom just to go out of an autumn day and enjoy the sunshine and the company of my manservant.” He turned towards me. “If love would ever prevent me from having moments like these or a paragon like you in my life, well, the god of the tender pash can empty his quiver into some other chap, because this Wooster has had enough.”

Fate had finally decided to smile upon my endeavour. I slid a little closer to Mr. Wooster on the blanket, but not so close as draw any unwelcome attention. “If I may speak freely, sir?”

Mr. Wooster nodded. “Of course Jeeves.” He paused and squinted at the sky. “Oh, I say, it has gotten rather dark.”

I felt something splash the back of my neck. One glance at the cumulonimbus clouds which had gathered at a preternatural speed over London forecasted that not only was rain imminent, but thunder and lightning would follow soon after.

As if on cue, thunder pealed deafeningly and the rain began to fall in earnest. When we had left Berkeley Mansions the sky had been clear blue, so I had neglected to pack an umbrella or a coat. I reacted quickly to save the remains of our luncheon and shouted over the sound of the downpour and thunder for Mr. Wooster to get himself a cab home while I followed behind on foot.

A half an hour later I was carrying the sodden picnic basket up the lift, my uniform drenched beyond repair, and my mood increasingly foul. As soon as I stepped into the flat MacIntosh bolted out of Mr. Wooster's bedroom, where, no doubt, it had been giving its vocal chords a rest in my absence, and made up for the hours it had lost. Mr. Wooster followed behind in his dressing gown. “Can I help you with any of that, old fruit?”

I shook my head and returned the picnic basket to the kitchen before re-emerging. “If you will excuse me, sir,” I told him placidly, “I appear to have forgotten something in the park.” Before he had a chance to respond I slipped out.

* * *

I returned a half an hour later with the wine bottle I had ostensibly left behind in my hand and a medicine vial full of a powerful sleeping drug concealed in the inner pocket of my morning coat. I donned a dry uniform and began to prepare Mr. Wooster's supper. While trimming the steak I cut a sliver and doused it in the drug I had purchased. When it had cooked I brought it to Mr. Wooster and fed the small piece of raw meat to MacIntosh.

Mr. Wooster, noting my apparently gratuitous act of kindness, shook his head in disapproval. “Jeeves, you're not falling ill after getting caught in that horrid downpour, are you?” His eyes searched my blank visage with concern.

“I can assure you, sir, I am in excellent health.”

“Well, then I am dashed, Jeeves.”

“Sir?”

“You assure me that you are the picture of health, full of the old v. and v., and at the same time you coolly reward the dog which has been making a perfect nuisance of himself? He will be worse than before once he's gobbled his fill, the greedy beast.”

“I think not sir,” I replied calmly. MacIntosh had finished its steak and in so far as a dog can stagger, he staggered around the dining room. Finally, with a wide yawn, he lay on his side and was still.

“Jeeves,” said Mr. Wooster, staring at MacIntosh's still form. “You are a bit of a marvel, you know.”

“Thank you sir. I thought a quiet night might be advisable.”

He ate in silence while I busied myself about the flat. After the dinner dishes had been washed and stacked to dry and I had poured Mr. Wooster a brandy, I braced myself and mentally rehearsed what I had planned. Satisfied that I could still remember every detail of what I wished to say, I stepped into the living room and offered him the snifter. He took it, and after he had enjoyed half, he his eyes fell to where I stood expectantly.

“Well Jeeves? You've been behaving a bit off since you got back from the vacation. Is something the matter?”

“Well, sir, there is something I've been meaning to discuss with you since I returned from my leave. While enjoying my vacation I had time to reflect on matters which I-” I stopped mid sentence as loud voices drifted into the flat.

“I say, don't you even remember where he lives?”

“It was six, six something I am sure.”

“Bloody hell, Eustace, if we bust into someone else's flat we'll spend the night in jail. Again.”

The front door burst open and Claude and Eustace Wooster, my employer's chronically irresponsible cousins, stumbled into the flat, dripping wet. They were giggling but stopped up short when they saw us.

Mr. Wooster and I stared at them. I clenched my fists at my side, praying that if there were a God, Providence would strike these two clearly inebriated young gentlemen down that very instant. I fought to remain calm and diffident. Mr. Wooster at least had the luxury of being indignant.

He stood and marched over to where his cousins leaned heavily on each other, grinning like fools. “Claude, Eustace. You burst into my flat without so much as a telegram or even bothering to knock. Why? You are in London and not in South America. Why? You do realize this is a private residence and not the bally Savoy.”

“Come off it Bertie,” Eustace scoffed with barely-contained mirth. “We're on the lam from the nephew crusher and need to lay low until tomorrow afternoon. We were out about the town when the storm hit and Claude said, 'Why don't we pay a visit to our dear cousin Bertie?’”

“You couldn't possibly throw us out, Bertie,” Claude joined in, smiling with an easy insolence. “It's not fit for a dog out there, and who knows what might befall two tender young chaps such as ourselves if forced to wander the dark streets of London alone in this state.”

I could see that Mr. Wooster was still irritated but would relent. Unfortunately, the twins sensed this too.

“Thank you, Bertie! You're an absolute pearl,” Claude enthused, throwing himself onto the chesterfield.

“I say, is that brandy over there on the sideboard?” Eustace was already unsteadily pouring himself a glass. I felt no obligation to help him, but for the sake of the carpet and the fine crystal I deftly took it from his shaking hands and murmured, “Allow me to take care of this for you, sir.”

Mr. Wooster threw up his hands. “Fine. You two blisters can stay here for the night. You will want to leg it out of here early. Aunt Agatha is scheduled to pick up MacIntosh at nine in the ack emma and if she finds you here she will have three nephews to crush instead of just the one.”

It is a tribute to how far gone the twins were that the mention of their dreaded relation dampened their spirits only slightly.

After enduring the company of his irritating relations for about thirty minutes, Mr. Wooster declared that he was going to retire early to finish his novel. Since he had already donned his nightwear and everything was set for the evening I had no excuse to follow him into the bedroom. Instead I was obliged to remain, waiting on Mssrs Claude and Eustace Wooster.

Mr. Wooster's cousins had always held an overly familiar demeanour towards me, partly flirtatious and partly condescending, but until that evening I had never taken it as a personal affront. This was, after all, their way with almost everyone they encountered, with the possible exception of their formidable aunts. This time, however, I detested their presence in Mr. Wooster's flat with a passion born of disappointment, anxiety and thwarted desire. Such was my desperation that had I been able to think of a plausible excuse to follow Mr. Wooster I would have thrown caution to the wind and made my confession to him while his inebriated cousins depleted our stock of good brandy in the next room. I knew that this would have been utterly foolish, but this thought only made my resentment of young Claude and Eustace keener.

After I had served them in silence for about an hour, Eustace turned to me. “Jeeves,” he slurred, handing me his glass, “Me n'Claude have a bet an'want you to tell us what you think.”

“Ra-ther,” Claude agreed eagerly, “although you would actually need to leave his service for money to change hands, what?”

I did not fully understand his meaning, but what I did comprehend made me dread what was to come. I watched their expressions warily.

“Well, earlier we were in a pub discussing you and Bertie and how if it wasn't for you he would be completely lost.”

“So,” Eustace interjected, “I said that he would be married and miserable within the month after you left.”

“Which I told him was rot,” Claude rejoined, “because I think he wouldn't last a day without driving over a cliff or impaling himself on a salad fork.” Apparently the thought of his own cousin dying was amusing to him, for he followed his horrific suggestions with a slightly high-pitched giggle.

“Which was when I said that the sure money was on him being swindled out of everything he owns,” Claude supplied brightly, finishing Mr. Wooster's brandy and beckoning for me to refill his glass.

“Might I remind you that you are Mr. Wooster's guests,” I replied, anger creeping into my voice, “and as such it is neither decorous nor advisable to speak ill of him in his absence.”

“Oh come now, Jeeves,” Claude scoffed, “you don't mind at all. You obviously enjoy how utterly helpless he is without you. Everyone knows it, and we are certainly not the only chaps who say so!”

“He couldn't wipe his arse without you,” Eustace added.

I had to actively resist the temptation to hurl the brandy I had poured for him into his face. Instead I stiffened, placed the decanter and glass on the side table, bowed disdainfully as I could, and said coldly, “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I think I will retire for the evening.”

* * *

As I lay in bed, so angry my blood felt like fire in my veins, I asked myself why I had become so incensed. I realised that it was not merely the insult to Mr. Wooster which had stirred my rage but also the implication that he was utterly dependent on my services. I did not, as the twins had insinuated, look upon Mr. Wooster as a man-child towards whom I comported myself as part elderly uncle and part wet-nurse; I respected, admired and loved him. What troubled me was that their perception of their cousin's relationship to me confirmed my deepest fears about Mr. Wooster's own understanding of our interactions. And this, I reflected, was entirely my fault. Early in my employment I had trained him like a dog, quietly punishing him when he acted contrary to my designs. I had behaved not unlike his aunts or more aggressive fiances, only I had the wit and the cunning to ensure that he did not resent my influence.

How could I ever imagine that someone who repeatedly called me “old Jeeves” and compared me to an elderly male relation was capable of feeling anything but slavish awe for me? In the solitude of my dark and cramped room, blinded by my own frustrations and insecurities, tears prickled the back of my eyelids.

Feeling as close as I had ever been to despair, I slipped into an unquiet rest.


	5. Chapter 5

I sleep at the same time every night for about six hours if not less; consequently, I very rarely dream. That night, however, my anxious mind provided me with a carnival of unconscious horrors. The part of my somnolent adventures I recollect with devastating vividness entailed my waiting on Mr. Wooster only to discover I was invisible and insubstantial. I would bring him a cup of tea only to have it fall through my suddenly transparent hand. I would try to light his cigarette and Mr. Wooster would walk through me. As is often the case with dreams, the events had a bizarre emotional profundity mere description fails to capture. In this instance, I was strangely overwhelmed with frustration and fear for his safety.

“That is the best thing about old Jeeves,” Mr. Wooster said to his Aunt Dahlia, who had materialized dressed for the hunt, “is that he's an invisible paragon—the unseen ideal, don't you know. One needn't worry about his feelings, what? I don't even know he's there most of the time! Jeeves,” he called, looking for me in the opposite direction, “the young master wishes to drink his G&Ts through a straw!”

Dahlia evaporated and Mr. Wooster began to glow. Suddenly, his hair burst into flame.

I tried to run to his aid but felt as though I were wading waist-deep in treacle. “Sir! Sir! You're on fire!” I shouted. He took no notice. I screamed and screamed but he remained oblivious to the conflagration which licked at his hair, scorched his skin and melted his beautiful eyes. When I finally reached him there was nothing left save a pile of ash and bones.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that my cheeks were wet. The second was that the smell of smoke from my dream had not dissipated. Panic gripping my heart, I leaped out of bed, threw on my dressing gown and bolted out of my room.

The living room was thick with smoke, but through the haze I could see Claude and Eustace passed out drunk on the floor, empty decanters and upset glasses strewn between them. The chesterfield was ablaze.

I ran into the kitchen and retrieved the fire extinguisher I had purchased for our home not six months previously and within seconds had doused the flames. Then I noticed that MacIntosh, who had been sleeping at the foot of the chesterfield, was smouldering. I hastened to his side and ensured that the creature was unharmed. Its fur was badly singed and it reeked of smoke, but he appeared otherwise untouched by the conflagration.

I tossed the empty canister of the extinguisher aside and ran to open the windows. Claude and Eustace, whom I could only assume had left a lighted cigarette on one of the cushions, had not stirred. Breathing heavily, through the clearing air I surveyed the smoking remains of the chesterfield, the singed dog, the red brandy stains which spotted the carpet and Mr. Wooster's slumbering cousins. I checked my watch. It was nearly six in the morning. Lady Worpleston was due to arrive in three hours.

I decided that Mr. Wooster and I needed to board a ship bound for America without delay. Now that his flat contained charred furniture, fugitive cousins and a heavily drugged dog that smelled of burning fur just in time for his most dreaded aunt to return, Mr. Wooster would leap at the chance to escape. Once we were aboard an ocean liner, there would be no barking terriers, no ringing telephones, no parasitical acquaintances and no unsavoury relations to thwart my intentions. I returned to my room to dress for the day and pack my bags before I entered Mr. Wooster's bedroom.

“Sir? Sir, wake up.”

He startled out of slumber with a jerk and stared at me blearily. “Jeeves, what time is it?”

“It is approximately a quarter after six, sir.”

“What, is the building on fire?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, yes it was.”

Mr. Wooster leaped out of bed in an instant and ran for the door. I cleared my throat. He turned to me, his eyes wild with panic.

“Jeeves! Why are you coughing? Has the smoke gotten you? Why are you just standing there, man? We need to get out!” As he spoke he grabbed my arm as if to physically haul me out of the building.

“Pardon me, sir, but I fear you are suffering under a misapprehension. The fire, which erupted on the chesterfield, has been thoroughly extinguished.”

Mr. Wooster stared at me. He loosened his grip but did not release my arm. “I say, you're not hurt, are you? Jeeves?” He scrutinized my face for signs of pain.

“I am unharmed, sir, thank you for inquiring.”

Mr. Wooster nodded and stepped away from me, letting my arm go with what I fancied was reluctance. “What on earth happened?”

“I could not say, sir, but I suspect that your cousins are responsible. The dog MacIntosh-”

“Was the little chap burned?” Mr. Wooster, to his credit, seemed genuinely concerned for the dog's well-being rather than for the repercussions of inadvertently killing his aunt's beloved pet.

“The animal slept throughout the ordeal and was largely untouched. His fur, however, very nearly caught on fire and looks rather the worse for wear, sir.”

He looked relieved for a moment before he started and exclaimed, “Good lord, Jeeves, Aunt Agatha!”

“Sir?”

“Aunt Agatha will see MacIntosh looking like we tried to use him as a Yule log, whereupon she will demand the Wooster bean served to her on a platter like Salami- what was the filly's name, Jeeves?”

“Do you mean Salomé, sir?”

“The beazel with the seven veils, yes, Salomé! And what are we going to do with the matched blisters, Claude and Eustace? We need to get them out of here before the aged A arrives!”

I coughed. “It occurs to me sir, that your cousins need not leave the apartment.”

“Need not leave the apartment?”

“No, sir, provided I begin packing our effects for departure immediately.”

“Wait. Where am I going, Jeeves?”

“Late autumns in New York are said to be very pleasant, sir.”

“Do a runner to New York, then?”

“Indeed sir.”

“Do you think we can find a passage on a boat—er, I mean, ship—that leaves this afternoon, Jeeves?”

“I believe it is possible, sir.”

“Right ho!”

“Very good, sir.”

* * *

A feeling of relief settled deep in my being as I began carefully unpacking Mr. Wooster's trunk for the two week journey to New York. That morning we had left the apartment and enjoyed an early breakfast at a little café I favoured. He remained there while I departed to make inquiries concerning boats scheduled to embark on their transatlantic voyage that very day. Within an hour I had booked us on a ship which began boarding at noon and departed at eight that evening.

As soon as the gangplank was lowered we stepped aboard and Mr. Wooster and I parted ways. I descended belowdecks to unpack and tend to his rooms while my employer went to the dining deck for lunch and cocktails. It took me but a half an hour to get Mr. Wooster's things in order, and as I did not expect him back for some time, I settled into an armchair and pulled out a copy of Walt Whitman's poetry. Reading Whitman never failed to bolster my spirits and faith in life; I also thought the selections highly appropriate given the boat's destination and the substance of my own impending confession.

* * *

“Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex-”

My reading was interrupted by the sound of knocking. I looked up from my book apprehensively. Mr. Wooster wouldn't bother to knock, and no one had been privy to our decision to leave the country. Bracing myself, I marked my place in the volume and opened the door slowly.

It took every moment of my years of training as a valet not to shut the door in Mr. Fink-Nottle's face. Instead, I drew myself up and adopted the expression that Mr. Wooster for some reason insists upon calling my “stuffed frog” face. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fink-Nottle. If you are looking for Mr. Wooster, I believe you will find him on the dining deck.”

Mr. Fink-Nottle was visibly distressed. “Hang it all, Jeeves, I don't want to talk to Bertie! I need your help.”

He pushed his way into the room and collapsed into the armchair, cradling his head in his hands.

“If I may be so bold as to ask, why are you not with Mrs. Fink-Nottle, sir?”

Mr. Fink-Nottle gave a little whimper and looked at me plaintively. “I tried to do as you suggested, Jeeves, but she had dashed well gone! I had to bribe Chuffy's footman to get him to tell me that they were on this ship!”

“'They,' sir?” I tried not to let the intense dread I felt creep into my voice. I fear I was not entirely successful.

Mr. Fink-Nottle, thankfully, did not notice. “Chuffy and her sister were going to visit my father-in-law in America and Emerald decided to come along without telling me!” He wailed.

“Perhaps,” I said, drawing on reserves of patience I was unaware I possessed, “it would be best to talk to your young wife about your troubles directly.”

Mr. Fink-Nottle shook his head violently. “I need to think of a plan, Jeeves. I can't very well sidle up to her and give her cruise tickets when we're already on a bally ship! You must help me,” he pleaded.

I took a deep breath. “Give me some time to consider your predicament and I will endeavour to come up with a solution which will be satisfactory for all parties,” I lied.

The look of intense relief and gratitude which washed over Mr. Fink-Nottle's face immediately upon hearing these words almost made me feel a pang of guilt. “Thank you Jeeves,” he enthused, and left the cabin, humming tunelessly to himself.

Mr. Wooster flew into the room not ten minutes after Mr. Fink-Nottle had departed. He seemed agitated.

“Good afternoon, sir. Did you see Mr. Fink-Nottle on your way in?”

“Gussie? Here? Well well.”

“Yes sir. He came in a short while ago.”

“It looks like this trip is going to be a Drones Club reunion.”

I stared at him in thinly-veiled dismay. “What do you mean, sir?”

He lit a cigarette and replied, “I mean, Jeeves, that I have just run into my two young cousins at the bar.”

“Sir?”

“Claude and Eustace. Here. On the boat. Apparently they had been on the lay-low in London waiting for this very ship to depart to New York where a good deal of the wet stuff will separate them and the enraged aged relation. Apparently someone noticed the smoke in the window and called the fire brigade. The firemen woke them up and they slipped out the fire escape minutes before Aunt Agatha was scheduled to arrive.”

“Surely your cousins and Mr. Fink-Nottle do not a Drones Club Reunion make, sir,” I observed with feigned indifference.

“Well, wait until you hear who else is here,” Mr. Wooster continued.

“You may be pleased to know that your old friend Lord Chuffnel is also on board, as are Lady Chuffnel and Mrs. Fink-Nottle.”

“I was aware, Jeeves” He looked pleased. "Old Boko is here with Ginger, and Barmy has decided that he wants to try his luck on Broadway. And it isn't only Drones, Jeeves.”

“This is good news, sir,” I replied dully.

“Bobbie Wickham is aboard with her mother. Her ghastly play—called 'The Heart Knows Best or 'The Heart's Fondest Wish', or something else involving hearts and swooning females—has found a buyer in America. Now I know you are not fond of young Bobbie, but you must admit that she is a filly with a smashing profile and a keen spirit who will fill hours which might have otherwise weighed heavily on the Wooster hands.”

“No doubt that is true, sir.” As I spoke, I could see the upcoming voyage vividly in my mind's eye. The next two weeks would be an endless saga of social mishaps, romantic misunderstandings and, most of all, constant interruption.

No, I thought. Not again.

I made a desperate, sudden resolution.

Mr. Wooster gave me an expectant look, and when I continued to say nothing, frowned slightly.

“If you will excuse me sir, I need to attend to the luggage.”

He nodded and waited until I was almost out of the door before calling out in an uncertain voice, “Jeeves?”

“Yes sir?”

He gazed at me for a long moment before opening his mouth. “I-” then he stopped himself. He took a deep breath, forced a smile and asked in a brittle voice, “I say, you wouldn't happen to have packed that particularly natty tie with the leopard spots on?”

“I am afraid that the item is ruined, sir.”

“Ruined?”

“MacIntosh regurgitated his afternoon repast on it, sir. No doubt the pattern over stimulated the animal.”

Mr. Wooster shook his head in disbelief.

“Please excuse me sir.” I felt his eyes follow me as I slipped out of the cabin.

* * *

When I returned to Mr. Wooster's quarters I found him ensconced in the armchair, a shilling shocker open in his lap. Nested inside it, however, was my copy of Walt Whitman's selected poetry. He glanced up at me and his cheeks flushed. “Is this yours, old thing? Poetry is not my cup of Darjeeling, mind you, but I quite like the bit about the morning glory being more satisfactory than the meta-whatsit of improving books.”

“Are you referring to the line 'A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books' from Leaves of Grass, sir?”

“That's the one! How you keep all this poetry bundled up in your mind is beyond me, Jeeves, fish-fed or no.”

“I hate to interrupt, sir, but I fear I have some disturbing news.”

“Eh?”

“As we speak Lady Worplesdon on her way to the ship.”

“What?” Mr. Wooster leapt to his feet, scattering the books on the floor. I picked them up as he began to pace in agitated circles. “Jeeves, if she finds me here after abandoning her pride and joy in a ruined apartment filled with firemen I'm sunk!” He paused, licking his lips. In spite of my rather harried state of mind, I found it a trifle distracting. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “We need to get off this bally boat and make good our escape to the metrop!”

“While a sound plan in principle, sir, I would remind you that your apartment is not suitable for habitation at present.”

“Brinkley Court, then, and let us make haste!”

“I hesitate to correct you, but that would be the first place Lady Worplesdon will search and while Lady Travers is a stalwart woman in many respects, I think it unlikely that she would lie to her sister on your behalf.”

Mr. Wooster's face fell and he gave me a hapless look.

“If I might make a suggestion, sir, I know of a suitable refuge.”

“Where?”

“It is a place which is unknown to you, sir.”

Mr. Wooster gave an exasperated sigh. “I don't like the sound of that, Jeeves.”

I had opened my mouth to reply when someone knocked on the door with so much force it could only have been louder had the individual been using a battering ram rather than his fist.

“BERTIE,” a voice roared, and Mr. Wooster looked at me in helpless terror.

“Aunt Agatha,” he whispered. “Good Lord, Jeeves, I'm finished.

I thought quickly and gestured silently for him to hide underneath the bed. He scrambled into his hiding place while I moved our books to the bedside table. I had not anticipated that my telegram would summon her so quickly. I composed myself and answered the door.

“Good afternoon, Lady Worpleston-”

She pushed past me uninvited, surveyed the room with a hungry eye and hissed, “Where is my worthless nephew?”

“I believe that he has gone to the top deck to play shuffleboard with his cousins, madam.”

She regarded me with narrowed eyes before scrutinizing the room and marching into the adjoining bathroom, throwing the door open. When she returned she stalked past me and left without a word, slamming the door behind her. I paused for a few moments, listening to ensure that she did not return before saying, softly, “You may come out now, sir.”

A series of sneezes issued from under the bed as Mr. Wooster rolled out. “It is dusty as the bally Sahara under there, Jeeves,” he sniffed.

“Might I suggest that we leave immediately, sir? I can have our luggage sent back to the flat after we disembark.”

Mr. Wooster sneezed again then replied, “Sound idea, but in re. our destination, perhaps young Bingo and the missus could furnish us with shelter.”

I gazed at him intently, silently willing him to acquiesce to my plans. I was so desperate to be alone with him I don't know what I would have done if he decided to balk at my suggestion. “Please trust me, sir. Please.”

Mr. Wooster looked at me for a long moment and seemed to reach to a decision. “You've pulled the Wooster corpus out of the soup more times than I can count. You've never let me down, Jeeves. So let's hie us hither.”

I let out a breath I hadn't been aware I was holding. “Thank you, sir.”


	6. Chapter 6

The three hour drive in the two seater was largely silent and we did not reach our destination until a little after dark. We had been driving through a narrow dirt road which wound its way through dense woodlands for about three quarters of an hour. Mr. Wooster looked increasingly worried.

I finally pulled into the slightly overgrown driveway and disengaged the engine. Mr. Wooster eyed the ramshackle two storey cottage doubtfully.

“Where are we?” He asked in a subdued voice.

“This is a place my Uncle Charlie owns a little distance from Hampshire. There is a lake near here where he taught me how to fish when I was a boy. He rarely has the leisure to visit but has given me leave to come and go as I see fit, sir.”

Mr. Wooster looked about him with renewed interest. “Ah, so this is a landmark of Jeevesian history.”

I nodded, quirking my lips.

Mr. Wooster opened his door and favoured me with a smile. “Let us have a look see, then. Show the young master the old haunts, what?”

I nodded and collected our suitcases. I unlocked the house and lit the gas while Mr. Wooster wandered around the downstairs. As I started a fire in the hearth, I found my hands were shaking and my beating heart thundered in my ears. When I had finished, I stood and found Mr. Wooster leaning in the doorway leading to the kitchen, watching me. The glow of the firelight and gas lamp played softly over his fine features to a devastating effect and I stared at him, overcome.

He walked toward me and said in a nervous, quiet voice, “Jeeves, I know you've had something to say to me since you got back.”

He stood so close to me that I could smell the subtle scent of his cologne. All of my careful plans and elaborate declarations abandoned me in one mad instant. I was no longer the master of my own actions.

“I have wasted too much time.” I took a deep breath. “God help me.” And I launched myself at poor, unsuspecting Mr. Wooster.

“I say Jee—mmph.” I kissed him with all of the pent up frustration, desire, fear, and affection which had kindled my cold heart into a blazing fire of love for this singular, maddening, beautiful, dim-witted, brilliant man. I kissed him as though it were my last night on earth, his last night on earth, as if we two stood at the very end of the world. I kissed him beyond all reason and all hope, beyond all gentleness and strength. I had no more words.

He stood still and let himself be kissed as if he were made of stone. I drew back, my fingertips still brushing his cheekbone. My heart shattered as I realized he was glaring at me.

“Oh my God.” I drew my hand away from his face and shrank back. “Sir, I . . . I am so sorry.” I was unable to look at him. “Take the two seater back to London. I . . .” My voice failed me. He stepped closer and grasped the lapels of my morning coat. I braced myself.

“Jeeves, you chump,” he said. “Look at me.”

I raised my eyes to his face.

He was still glaring, but close as our faces were I read something like mirth behind his eyes, and speechless joy. “What took you so bloody long?” He ran his hands up my chest and held my face between his hands with a touch so delicate and tender I nearly wept with relief. Wordlessly he brought his lips to mine and kissed me, his mouth moving slowly and sensually and his tongue gently parting my frozen lips. I roused myself and returned the kiss tenfold, winding my arms about his slender frame and closing my eyes.

After several moments, I broke the kiss and gently urged him toward the settee. I pulled him down next to me. The light of the fire danced in his eyes as he regarded me in silence. I drew a shaking breath and gathered his hands in my own. “I have been trying to say something to you since I returned from France.”

“Jeeves, you didn't call me 'sir!'” He exclaimed.

I stiffened and dropped his hands. “If this is a problem, sir, then you misunderstand what has happened and it would be best if we never spoke of this again.”

“No—dash it, I've made a hash of things. Here.” He reclaimed my hands and squeezed them gently. “I know, whatever happens, you'll still need to call me sir in front of everyone else, but I was rather hoping it wouldn't wound the feudal spirit to call me Bertie when we're alone?”

I smiled. “I prefer Bertram.”

Mr. Wooster—Bertie—made a face. “I suppose I could get used to the sound of it on the Jeevesian lips.”

“My name is Reginald,” I volunteered, not relishing the idea of being called by my family name in the midst of a carnal act.

Bertie looked affronted. “You think I don't know your Christian name by now, Reginald? You must think me an absolute cad! I say, could I call you Reggie?”

“I would rather you called me Reginald.”

“I think,” he said, moving to straddle my hips with a catlike grace I would never have imagined he possessed, “a dose of the Wooster charm might temper the notorious obstinacy of Reginald Jeeves.” He ran his fingers down my shoulders, pulling at my morning coat while he planted kisses along my neck and my jaw, before finally settling on running his tongue along the shell of my left ear.

I hardened under his ministrations while my mind attempted to reign in my physical response. There was so much left unspoken. I still did not know my employer's intentions, and I was running a terrible risk allowing things to progress so far without reaching a completely mutual understanding. The deciding factor, however, was my conclusion that the feeling of his teeth worrying my earlobe might be the most exquisite sensation I had ever experienced in my life.

Damning the consequences, I captured his lips and began divesting him of his blazer. His tie and his collar soon followed and I ran my hands up and down the rough tweed of his woollen waistcoat.

“Reggie,” he gasped into my mouth as he ground himself shamelessly against my lap. Much to my surprise I found that on his perfect lips I didn't mind the otherwise irksome appellation.

I rose to my feet, urging Bertie to stand, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him behind me up the rickety stairs to the cottage's one bedroom. When I had lit the lamp and closed the door behind me I turned and found that he had shrugged out of his shirt and slipped his braces off his shoulders. I feasted my eyes on the gentle slopes and planes of his torso, from the graceful neck and shoulders to the wispy tufts of golden curls running from his breastbone and past his naval to only darken and vanish tantalizingly underneath his trousers. He tossed his head and laughed, splaying himself on the bed. “I never thought I would live to see the day when my paragon stood gaping like a fish.”

I couldn't let that pass. With a growl I stepped out of my shoes and socks, shucked my morning coat, my collar, my tie, my shirt and my braces before pouncing on him and claiming his lips with a searing kiss. I reached down and cupped him through his trousers. He was already hard and I gave him a few teasing strokes before removing his shoes, his socks, and finally his trousers. He clasped me and kissed me with a desperate passion while I undressed him, and when he was finally naked he grabbed me by the back of the neck and hissed urgently, “Dash it Reggie, stop teasing and touch me.”

Obligingly I slid my hands down his arms until my thumbs ran delicately over the inside of his wrists. He writhed delightfully as I moved down his to mouth his chest hair. When I bit a nipple he cried out, straining against the light pressure I maintained on his wrists. “Please, let me touch you, please,” he begged, so I released him, sliding one hand beneath the elegant curve at the small of his back while the other lead the way down his stomach with my mouth following close behind. He ran his long hands through my hair while I traced a finger up to the tip of his stiff cock and I peppered the inside of his thighs with gentle but possessive bites.

He wrapped his long legs around my shoulders and gently urged my mouth where he wanted it most. I nuzzled him before licking my way up both sides of his shaft. His breathing grew ragged with anticipation. I blew on the head of his cock and darted my tongue out to lick the bead of liquid which had gathered there. He groaned. I was pleased to note that true to his loquacious nature, he was just as vocal in the bedroom as he was outside of it. As I have always possessed an acute aural sensitivity, the sounds he was making had me almost unbearably hard and straining.

I swallowed him down and then bobbed my head up, leaving only the tip resting on the very edge of my tongue before repeating, applying gentle suction each time. I moved my hands to his hips to curtail his thrusts and he moved his hands from my hair to grasp them in an iron grip. I savoured the salty bitterness and the heavy feel of his cock filling my mouth and throat. I lost myself in the primal rhythm of this act; my mind was empty save for deciphering the language of his desire in the tense undulation of his hips and the slide of his hardness over my eager tongue. He felt so close. I was dimly aware of his hands tugging at my hair to pull my head off his cock, but I batted them away, closed my eyes and sucked him as deeply into my throat as I could.

I felt his body shake under my hands as he clenched his legs around me and surrendered himself in his shout of completion. I swallowed as much of him down as I could, but some of it escaped my lips and dribbled onto my chin. Letting his softening manhood slide out of my pleasantly aching lips, I wiped my mouth with the sheet and slid up to wrap my body around him. I kissed him hard, wanting to make him taste himself in the depths of my mouth.

Catching his breath, he pulled away from me, his cheeks flushed with pleasure. “That,” he said, “was brilliant. Really topping. Just . . . good lord, Reginald.” He hesitated and licked his lips nervously before continuing, “Dear old thing, I was wondering if you would . . . wait here for a mo'.”

Before I could protest he had gotten to his feet—unsteadily, I noticed with no little self-satisfaction—and disappeared downstairs. When he re-emerged he handed me a small pot of oil that he had apparently procured from the kitchen.

I raised my eyebrow.

“Would you?” He asked quietly.

“Of course. Whatever you desire, Bertram. I would do anything for you.” I had not intended to make such a telling declaration, but the sight of him still aglow with orgasmic bliss and the desire still written so plainly on his open features forced the words from my heart to my lips. To disperse the weight of what I had inadvertently and obliquely admitted, I shot him my most salacious and heated look before pulling my own trousers off.

His eyes widened appreciatively and he moved forward as if entranced, his graceful palms tracing up and down my sides. “Reginald, you are built along the lines of those Greek chappies we saw at the Museum last year,” he said in awe. “You're bally gorgeous.”

I lay supine as he explored my body with a lively curiosity which was so very him I could not help the smile which crept over my face. His sensitivity to my slightest gesture and expression gave him uncanny insight when searching for those areas which produce a particularly strong physical stimulation for me, such as the arch of my foot, the hollow of my hip, and my neck. When he had reduced me into an absolutely dizzying state of arousal and showed no signs of ceasing his tenuous and teasing explorations, I sat up and gathered him into my lap, grinding my hardness against him. I opened the jar with one hand and dipped my fingers into the cool oil, warming it on my fingers. “Have you ever done this before?” I gasped into his ear as I continued to move against him.

“Of course,” he breathed back, sucking my earlobe into his mouth and flicking it with his dexterous tongue.

He slid off my lap and rolled over on his back, gazing into my eyes. “Take me like this,” he said, stretching his long legs languorously. He grabbed my wrist and moved my slicked fingers to his opening. Slowly, he pushed one finger inside himself. He was so hot and tight inside I almost spent prematurely. He moved my finger in and out of him, stretching himself, lost in the bliss of the easy, deep rhythm he had set. My other hand reached out and cupped his cheek as I slid a second finger into his ready entrance. He moaned and nuzzled my palm, kissing it tenderly as his hips began to move in counterpoint to my fingers. “Yes, Reggie, another finger, please, deeper . . .” With his other hand he began idly stroking his cock, which was hardening again. I angled my fingers and thrust hard to hit his prostate. His back arched off the bed as he cried out, “Reg, I need you inside me now.” He pulled my fingers out of him and wrapped his legs around my waist, reaching down to stroke my cock before guiding it to his entrance.

I searched his eyes for permission and he gave it, nodding and pulling me in with his legs. Inch by torturous inch I sank into his willing body. When I saw his features crease in discomfort I stopped. “Bertram, am I hurting you?”

Bertie looked at me incredulously. “Did you really just stop? If I don't like it, I'd jolly well let you know. For the love of God, Reginald, bugger me!”

The command bypassed my brain and shot straight to my groin. I moaned and thrust into his body as far as I could go with one smooth motion. The discomfort was driven from his face and a look of absolute ecstasy took its place. I paused in order to allow him to adjust to the feeling, whereupon he glared at me impatiently. When this produced no effect he wiggled his hips in a way which made me absolutely mad with lust. I began thrusting in earnest, then, knowing from his cries and the fluid painted on my stomach by his leaking cock that the angle had me hitting that spot with every stroke. His nails raked down my back and he leaned up to plant a wild, biting kiss on my lips. Bertie was improbably flexible. “God,” he gasped, his mouth so close I could feel the brush of his lips as he spoke. “Reginald, I . . . oh, oh God . . .” He collapsed back onto the pillow and his hand moved to fist his own cock. I could tell he was very nearly there, so I moved one of the hands which clutched his hips to his chest and pinched one nipple than another while I whispered hoarsely, “Come off for me Bertie.”

This threw him into a powerful climax and he spent himself between our bodies, sobbing my name. The contraction of his passage around my throbbing manhood proved too much and I followed him into the realm of blinding pleasure, thrusting once, twice, before shooting myself deep into him.

We lay there in a lewd but sated tableau for some time before we returned to ourselves. I slid out of him and off of him and he stretched his legs before entwining them with my own and burying his face in my shoulder. I shivered as I felt my seed drip out of his body onto my thigh, reminding me of what exactly I had done. Now that the blinding excitement of animal passion was spent, I was reclaimed by worry.

I needed an excuse to leave Mr. Wooster's embrace and the intoxicating smell of our mingled odours to consider my next move. I made as if to go only to find his arms had tightened around me. He raised his eyes to meet mine. “Where, exactly, do you imagine you are going?”

“To clean us off, sir,” I replied.

He frowned. “Reginald, if I let you out of this bed or out of my sight, I need to know that you're not going to don the valeting togs and begin calmly serving the young master his breakfast and sir-ing me as if nothing happened between us.”

I did not wish to have this conversation while my chest was splattered with his drying semen, but if I learned one thing from this trying ordeal it was that the opportune moment might never arrive. “Sir—Bertram—I need you to be fully aware that I have fallen in love with you. Please, do not speak. I do not ask that you return the sentiment, but thought that you should know that when I said that I would do anything for you I meant it in every sense. I love you, Bertram.” I looked at him with an utterly unguarded expression for the first time. I wish I could say that I did so because my confession would have greater impact, but in truth I simply could not bring myself to hide behind any sort of mask when I lay in his arms.

Bertie looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Reginald, I realize that between the two of us you are the one possessed with greater intellect than was allotted to mere mortals, but in spite of being the brainiest cove I know you can be frightfully dim at times.”

I stared at him.

In a flash his hand hooked around the back of my neck and he crushed my lips to his in a kiss that left me breathless. “Reginald, before I astound you with the unexpected depths of the Wooster ingenuity and reveal to you the Achilles whatsit of your own mental powers, you need to answer my question.”

“Which question would that be?”

“What took you so long?” He wagged his finger playfully. “I have been waiting for you to say something, old thing.”

“I have been trying to say something since I returned from France,” I said, capturing his hand and kissing the fingertip.

Bertie shook his head. “Jeeves—Reginald—I have been waiting for you to make a move for years.”

“Years?” I echoed incredulously.

“Years. You see, I've been potty for you, smitten with the divine pash, for a long time. Reg, you would need to be blind, deaf and dumb not to have seen it written in large letters on the Wooster dial.”

“Then why in heaven's name didn't you say something?”

“How could I say anything? You are my valet, and I am not the sort of wealthy bounder who takes liberties with his staff. I needed to know if you felt the same way and that, well, you were attracted to the willowy Wooster frame for its own sake and not because you were afraid I would hand you the mitten if you said no. I tried everything I could think of to get you to make a confession. I even tried to make you jealous by consorting with brainy beazels who were a bit like you. Not that you are in any way, shape or form like a filly,” he added with endearing haste, “you are as cove-like as cove-like gets, and a rather fine looking cove at that so there will be no complaints from the Bertram end of things.”

I parted from him for a moment to reach my morning coat from which I produced two cigarettes. I pressed one between his reddened lips and lit it before following suit with mine. After inhaling deeply, I turned to Bertie. “What happens now?”

“I should tell you that I have known for a long time that I would never marry a female,” he said slowly, watching my reaction out of the corner of his eye, “and this leaves a vacancy open in the Wooster heart for the posish of romantic companion.”

“I see,” I said with mock seriousness, taking a thoughtful puff at my cigarette. “What are the requirements for the situation, sir?”

“The chap for the job must be tall and handsome, with a massive brain seated inside a head that bulges delightfully in the back,” he answered playfully, “blue eyes and a predilection for fish and improving books. Would you happen to know someone suited to the task of making one B. Wooster the happiest man alive?”

“I am sure I could think of someone sir,” I replied.

All jocularity subsided from his expressive countenance and he reached for my hand. “I am serious about this, Reg, if you are. I love you in a foreverish sort of way, and if you can't see putting up with the young master for years to come, you should say something now rather than breaking my heart later. I don't think I could stand it if you biffed off for greener pastures because you'd grown tired of being with someone so mentally negligible.”

“You were made perfectly to be loved,” I whispered to him passionately, “and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long. And I will continue to do so, Bertram.”

Bertie's eyes were wide. “Reginald,” he said with feeling, “I . . .” His voice choked up. He took a deep breath and snuffed out his cigarette to compose himself. When he turned to me his eyes were a little dim. “You are the most beautiful, talented, intelligent and soppy manservant on this side of the Atlantic. Was that one of yours?”

“No, that was Mrs. Browning.”

He looked confused. “I say, that's a bit of a coincidence, her writing to a chappie named Bertram.”

“That was an addition of my own,” I supplied with a smile, “it was not original to Mrs. Browing's text.”

“I see,” he said, before sealing our agreement with a kiss that left me breathless and panting underneath him. We talked no more of poetry that night.

* * *

From that time onward my life underwent a cataclysmic change. While my customary self-mastery and cunning has helped me protect us from discovery and scandal, the comedy of errors which lead to that perfectly imperfect moment of revelation was the first of my lessons in learning to relinquish my desire for utter self regulation. I came to know myself well enough to recognize that my feelings for him was the one thing in my life I could not control or restrain but only nurture as we spent our lives together.


End file.
